by JP Ratto
A living room, bathed in sunlight, was empty. Nicely furnished, everything in place. The same for the kitchen and the dining room opposite it. It appeared none of the rooms had been used that morning. Moving from the foyer to a narrow hallway, I passed a bedroom, which had been turned into a den with comfortable seating and a large-screen television.
Padding on, I found two more rooms at the end of the hall. The master bedroom and an office I knew was Douglas Cain’s. I noted only one side of the bed had been slept in and turned my attention to the office.
I’d been to Cain’s office on Fifth Avenue and this room was nearly a replica of his plush law-firm space. Wood-paneled walls, Aubusson rug, and mahogany furniture. Neat piles of folders were on the desk. A man’s suit jacket and tie lay strewn over one of two wing chairs. An uncapped bottle of whiskey stood on a small table next to the other chair. Glancing around I noticed a wall painting askew and walked over to check it out. Behind it was a wall safe, the door was ajar. I looked inside. It was empty.
Where the hell was Cain? Had he decided he had no options and ran? Then what was I doing there?
About to leave, I heard movement in another part of the apartment. I listened closely and distinctly heard the apartment door close. Then footsteps. I looked around. I was in the back of the residence with no way out except through a ninth-floor window. I took out my gun and hid behind the office door.
The footsteps came quickly and sounded close together. A woman’s stride. Mrs. Cain? I kept my gun at my side, out of sight, and stepped out into the hallway.
“Oh Dios mio!” A middle-aged Hispanic woman stopped walking and pressed her hand to her heart. She recoiled when I went to take out my ID.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you. My name is Lucas Holt. I’m a private investigator. Mr. Cain invited me here. Here’s my ID.” I held it out to her, but she ignored it and stared at the weapon in my other hand. “Sorry, I thought you were an intruder.” I holstered my gun.
“Where is Mr. Cain?” She looked past me into the office. “I need the key.”
“The key? The apartment door was open so I let myself in. Mr. Cain is not here though.”
“No, the key to my rooms.”
“You live here, Senora…”
“Anita Alvarez. No, I don’t live here. I call the rooms off the kitchen mine because the pantry, laundry and a little sitting room I use is there.” She spoke English with only a slight accent.
I nodded. “And the rooms are locked?”
“Yes. Mr. Cain keeps a key in his desk. The top left drawer.”
I stepped aside and let her pass. Before going to the desk, she scanned the room. “His briefcase is there.” She pointed to it on the floor next to a chair.” He never goes to work without it.” She picked up the jacket, shook out the wrinkles, and neatly laid it back on the chair. She then recapped the bottle of whiskey. I watched her scan the room again.
“What?” I asked.
“Where is the glass?”
I shrugged. “Maybe he drank from the bottle.”
She gave me a look that said only vagrants do that, and finally moved to the desk and opened the drawer. She took out a key and held it up.
“Good, you found it. I’m going to leave. When Mr. Cain comes home, tell him I was sorry to have missed him.”
I turned to go when she spoke. “You say your name is Mr. Holt?”
“Yes. Why?”
She pointed inside the desk drawer. “There is a package and a note for you here.”
A gift from Douglas Cain?
I told Anita Alvarez I’d take the package, and she could get on with her work. She grabbed Cain’s jacket and tie, and I watched her go across the hall to the master bedroom. Turning my attention to the package, I examined the outside, lifted it to feel its weight, and listened for any sounds. Wrapped in brown paper, whatever was inside was surrounded by soft padding. I doubted Cain would leave me anything that would destroy his home when opened, considering I might not just take it and leave.
Carefully removing the paper and peeling back folds of fabric, I revealed a knife. A bloody knife. What had Cain done? I thought of my daughter hours away, whom I’d left safe and sound. Was he somehow able to get to her after I left? Had he hired another assassin? I shook my head in denial. Surely, I would have heard something.
Anita Alvarez came out of the bedroom, humming, her arms filled with dirty laundry. We glanced at each other, and she moved on down the hall. Ripping open the envelope, I unfolded a couple of pages of a handwritten letter. My hands trembled as I began to read and then experienced relief and horror at the same time. I dropped the letter on the desk, shouted Anita Avarez’s name, and raced out of the room toward the kitchen.
Halfway there, Anita’s blood curdling scream reverberated throughout the apartment. She was in the kitchen, and I reached her in time to keep her from hitting the floor in a faint. Lifting her, I set her on the living room sofa and returned to the rooms off the kitchen.
Beyond the pantry, laundry area, and small bathroom, was the sitting room in the tiny staff quarters. Drawing closer, I smelled the faint pungent odor of gunfire. The room was no more than six feet wide and ten feet long. Douglas Cain’s nearly faceless body lay slumped with his head back on the one soft-cushioned chair in the room. Blood, bone fragments, and brain matter were splattered on the wall and window behind the chair.
I didn’t touch anything and, after checking on the housekeeper, ran back to Cain’s office to retrieve the package and note. It wasn’t a suicide note. I’d seen another envelope in the room, where Cain chose to take his life, with “Bobbie” written on it. What Cain had left me was evidence pertaining to another case. It was the missing knife that was used to kill Sheila Rand and, according to Cain’s letter, had Todd Grayson’s fingerprints on it.
Chapter 39
Ray Scully stopped on the precinct steps and checked his watch. Almost time for lunch. He’d driven most of the night up to Elmira and back. After dropping off the special delivery, he went home for a few hours’ sleep.
Settling at his desk, he turned on his computer and hoped he would be able to access the formalized document that would make his day. Scully typed in the appropriate text and hit enter. “Yes!” He hit the print command key and strode to the printer. As he scanned the pages, Sean McCarthy approached. Scully glanced up and silently acknowledged his partner with a nod.
“Hey, Ray. About time you came to work. Catching up on your beauty sleep?”
“Yeah,” Scully said, still preoccupied with his reading.
“Well, I gotta tell you, pal, it ain’t working.”
Scully finished reading and handed the document to Sean. “Here, look at this.”
“What? I hope like hell this isn’t your resignation.”
“Just check it out, Sean.”
“You’ve been to Central Booking. You made a collar last night? Where was I? I don’t under—” Sean lifted his head to look at Scully. “This is real?” He beamed as he pointed to the name of the offender.
Scully saw Captain Roy Burke enter the bullpen and head straight for them.
“Detective Scully. In my office. Now.” Burke turned and walked away.
Sean handed the documents back to Scully. “Hey, Ray, what’s up with the captain’s shit-eating grin?”
“I guess I’ll find out,” Scully said and followed Burke into his office.
Once the detective was inside, Burke slammed the door, causing the blinds to shake and the glass pane to rattle dangerously. Scully watched the captain remove his jacket and hang it on a rack. He uncharacteristically slackened his tie and rolled up his sleeves.
Looks like he’s preparing for a brawl.
Not waiting to be invited, Scully sat, crossed his legs, and nonchalantly smacked his knee with the rolled-up documents he held. Burke moved to stand behind his desk and, with arms folded, looked down at his subordinate.
“You know, Scully, you’re a real pain in the ass. Kind of like y
our buddy, Holt. You’re two of a kind. Troublemakers. You just can’t seem to get with the program.”
“What program are you referring to?” Scully slapped the papers against his palm.
Burke’s eyes darted to the papers in Scully’s hand. He sneered and said nothing.
Scully watched his captain’s lips tighten. It’s annoying the shit out of him, but he won’t take the bait.
“Detective, you know damn well what I’m talking about, go along to get along. You don’t get it. You continue to try to undermine me—and you drag that other poor schmuck, McCarthy, with you. Think I don’t know when he’s covering for you?”
Scully uncrossed his legs, leaned forward, and pointed the rolled up pages at Burke. “So why am I here? Is there a point to all this?”
Burke smiled and began to pace with his hands clasped behind his back. “Help me out, Scully. I can’t decide whether to demote you or place you on uniform duty for six months. Which would you hate more? I’m thinking traffic duty on Fifth Avenue. That should keep you out of trouble.” The captain stopped and gave Scully a tooth-filled grin. “It’s a gift, really. And if I’m in a good mood when the assignment is complete, you might even resume your detective’s position. Don’t worry, in the meantime, I’ll find a competent partner for McCarthy.”
Scully stood, tapping the tube of paper on the side of his leg. “Well, Captain, you might want to rethink that.”
“Rethink? Where do you get your nerve, Detective? You—”
Scully interrupted Burke when he, again, smacked the palm of his hand with the papers.
“Put those damn papers down! You’re not making it any easier on yourself by pissing me off.”
“These papers? Sorry, it almost slipped my mind. I wanted to show them to you.” He unrolled and flattened them, handing one of the pages to Burke. “Thomas Keeler is in custody; he confessed to killing Frank Giaconne.”
“What? That case is closed.” Burke scanned the Central Booking report. “You did this? After I told you to leave it alone. This guy’s confession means nothing. The evidence—”
“Oh yeah, about that. The evidence connecting Kwan to Giaconne’s murder is on its way to the lab. What do you wanna bet Kwan’s fingerprints are not on the wallet he’s supposed to have taken from Giaconne?”
“That’s outrageous! You can’t reopen a case without my authority. I’m calling the lab to put a stop to this.”
Scully held out another paper and pointed to a signature. “The acting commissioner might not appreciate that.”
Burke read the order from Sheppard’s replacement without taking it from Scully’s hand.
“You know, Captain, when Keeler’s story is checked, it’ll be obvious evidence was planted so the case would be closed. And why would you want to do that? I’ll tell you why. To cover up the fact that Todd Grayson’s lawyer hired Keeler to kill Giaconne. And why did Douglas Cain want Giaconne dead?” Scully asked rhetorically. “This, you’ll find personally interesting. Giaconne knew something about Marnie Holt’s kidnapping. He knew what Sheppard knew, what Scott Hamlin knew—and what you knew.” Scully paused. He watched Burke sink into his chair, his face colored and his mouth tightened. “You all knew the name of the woman who abducted Holt’s daughter and you buried it.”
Burke shook his head and smiled. “That’s it? Sheppard and Giaconne are dead. What you’ve got is hearsay.” He tossed the Central Booking report back to Scully.
“Captain, you’re forgetting about Hamlin. Scott tried to correct the report, but someone made sure the woman’s name was never discovered. We have a witness to corroborate that.”
When Burke remained silent, Scully stood to leave. “Was there anything else?” He grinned at the captain’s obvious shock.
Burke scowled and his eyes bulged with pent-up rage. He slowly rose from his chair. “You think this is funny?” Roy Burke leaned forward and aimed a finger at Scully. You fucking asshole. Watch your back, Detective! You’re in shit so deep you won’t be able climb out.”
Scully smiled. “It’s been a pleasure, sir.” He exited and softly closed the door behind him.
***
Ray Scully pulled his vibrating phone from his pocket. “Lucas. What’s up? If you’re wondering about Keeler, it’s all taken care of.”
“No, and thanks. Ray, this isn’t official yet, so keep it to yourself.”
“What?”
“Douglas Cain is dead. It looks like suicide.”
Scully glanced around to see who was within listening distance. “No shit.”
“Yeah, I just found his body in his apartment. Well, technically his housekeeper did.”
“What are you doing at his apartment?”
“I was invited—long story. Listen, I need you here now. Cain left us something, and I don’t want it to disappear. I haven’t called the police yet and can’t wait too long. Can you come?”
Scully lowered his voice. “I just had an intense conversation with Burke—he’s threatened to put me on traffic duty.”
“Ray, this is big. And if things go the way they should, you’ll be the least of Burke’s problems.”
“Okay, give me the address. Be there asap.”
Dropping the Keeler papers on his desk, Scully grabbed his jacket. Sean turned in his seat. “Hey you’re not leaving without telling me what happened.”
“Sorry, I’ll fill you in later. If Burke comes looking for me, tell him I went home to dust off my uniform.”
***
Roy Burke didn’t know if he was more incensed by Scully’s defiance or worried about what Keeler’s arrest meant for him. He grabbed his phone and called Emmett Kerrigan.
“This is Kerrigan.”
“It’s Burke. Are you alone?” He tugged at the collar of his shirt, which stuck to his neck despite the frigid air-conditioning.
“Yes. Is something wrong?”
“I think this whole thing with Cain and that hired assassin is about to blow up. Last night Scully arrested Keeler and got a confession implicating Cain.”
Burke heard Kerrigan swear under his breath. “Where is Keeler right now?”
“In Central Booking. He’s out of my reach, if that’s why you’re asking. Can’t touch him.”
“The case is still under your jurisdiction?”
An unfamiliar man in a dark blue suit rapped on the glass of Burke’s door. He held up a file and gestured that he wanted permission to enter. Burke waved him off.
“Technically, but Mayor Crandall’s temporary police commissioner is involved. He’s authorized reopening Giaconne’s murder. That means my hands will be tied. I don’t like how this is playing out. With Cain’s connection to Grayson, this will become high profile and senior detectives will be positioning themselves to get the case. And those scumbags from Internal Affairs may want a piece of it too.”
The longer Burke spoke, the faster the words tumbled out. He reached around with one hand to massage a knot in his shoulder.
“You should consider retirement,” Kerrigan said. “Distance yourself from these investigations as much as possible. Take the wife on a vacation. Whoever gets the case will be looking for the guy who ran things. The way you handled Giaconne’s murder was Sheppard’s idea. You’ve inherited that problem, so they’ll focus on you. You wouldn’t do well in an orange jumpsuit.”
Burke shuddered at the thought of going to jail; prisoners hate cops.
“Captain Burke, it sounds like your ship is sinking. Try to stay afloat.”
Yeah, great advice, asshole. “I gotta go; some nuisance is banging at my door. Let’s talk later.”
“Let’s not.”
All of a sudden, I’m a pariah, and Kerrigan’s distancing himself from me.
Burke removed the phone from his ear when he heard the call disconnect and stared at the screen. Sweat leeched through his shirt, dampening his back and armpits. He glanced up at another knock on his door.
The man in the blue suit stood outside the office, his li
ps pressed tightly together, the folder under his arm. Again, Burke waved him away. Not moving, the man held up his ID.
Burke rose from his chair. What’s his goddamn problem?
“Come in,” he shouted through the glass.
In addition to his baldness, the man wore dark sunglasses that hid half his angry face.
Where does he think he is? The fuckin’ beach?
As if reading Burke’s mind, the man removed his glasses and peered at the captain.
“Michael Glennon, Internal Affairs.”
Chapter 40
“Thank you, Mrs. Grimes. If there’s anything you need, please let me know.”
Todd Grayson turned off his cell phone and picked up his coffee. He took a few sips, set it down, and pushed away his plate of eggs.
His wife, Maeve, sat across from him in their brightly decorated breakfast room. They’d risen late after a night of campaign conference calls for him and a women’s fundraiser for her. It was after noon, and they were having their first meal of the day.
Her laptop open on the table in front of her, Maeve spent her mornings internet surfing. She loved to read blogs dedicated to decorating and cooking even though she engaged in neither herself. The eldest daughter of Emmett Kerrigan, she grew up in a house with a full staff to cater to one’s every need. She’d been saving pictures of room décor to her computer favorites for future reference. Grayson knew Maeve was ready to be First Lady and official hostess of the people’s house. I owe it to her.
His stomach churned with unease. A sharp pain stabbed one temple. How can I break this to her?
He thought Maeve looked lovely even with little makeup and dressed for the yoga class she attended three times a week. She appeared years younger than her age. He hated to disappoint his wife. She thinks this is all behind us. He especially hated to give her bad news. She’ll know what may lie ahead.